


Not Cricket

by apacketofseeds



Category: Monty Python RPF
Genre: Amused Graham, Crying Terry, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Jealous and confused Mikey, Jealousy, M/M, Phobias, Pre-Slash, Surprisingly soft John
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-07
Updated: 2021-02-07
Packaged: 2021-03-12 19:07:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,110
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29265519
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/apacketofseeds/pseuds/apacketofseeds
Summary: Graham glanced into the living room, still smiling that bloody smile.“I’ve never seen him like that with anyone either,” he said, and Michael looked up at him sharply. “Apart from you, of course.”
Relationships: John Cleese/Michael Palin
Comments: 2
Kudos: 11





	Not Cricket

John’s head cracking against the wall was the most immediate threat to the peace. The cricket bouncing onto his lap paled in comparison, because John would be livid the moment cartoon stars stopped swirling around his crown. Not with the cricket, though—he’d be livid with Terry. No change there, honestly, but it wasn’t every day Terry clambered up John’s body with no care for his comfort to escape a harmless insect.

Michael discovered Terry’s fear of crickets in his first year at Oxford. The scene went thus: a rude awakening with Terry hammering his door down; Michael searching Terry’s dormitory high and low for a chittering cricket; then the pair of them sleeping top to tail in Michael’s single bed when he hadn’t found it. It was only right he rescue Terry on this occasion following that monumental failure.

Script papers scattered. Terry's foot caught a mug of coffee and tipped it over. John looked dazed.

“I’ll get it,” Michael announced, leaping up in anticipation of John’s exploding. Terry had almost climbed onto the back of the sofa, using John as a sort of human shield while the leggy green blighter perched on his dark trousers, bold as brass.

Scooping the thing up was easy, though it did bounce around a bit between Michael’s cupped hands. Graham came and opened the back door for him, and when Michael let it go, it practically flew out into the bushes.

There. He brushed his palms off on his thighs. Done and duly dusted. Yet… no yelling from the other room. No arguing. Had he missed something?

Shit.

Michael held out an arm, stopping Graham in the doorway. Terry was crying. That shaky whimpering truly was the worst of Tel’s repertoire of Welsh noises.

If he weept from embarrassment, Michael had to stay put in the kitchen and leave his friend at least some dignity. Though, if John had done something awful to him—that long overdue fist fight, perhaps—it was likely Michael was the only one capable of calming them down. A dilemma indeed. One that had Michael peering around the doorframe.

He recoiled. John’s hand was tangled in Terry’s hair, his thumb brushing a tender back and forth across his tearstained cheek. John looked awfully concerned, and Terry looked as jumpy and shellshocked as a man freshly returned from war.

“Shush, little plum,” John soothed, his voice like silk. “Mikey’s getting rid of it.”

“W-what if…” Terry stuttered, eyes glazed and widened in dread, “…it comes back inside?” He trembled, and John rubbed his sleeve to comfort him.

“It won’t, don’t worry.” Another caress of Terry’s face, black curls swept behind his ear. “You’re okay.”

Michael couldn’t watch. He marched to the sink and poured himself a glass of water. An automatic action—he simply needed something to occupy his hands.

“What’s the matter?” Graham asked while Michael stared through kitchen tile, attempting to bleach his brain clean of what he’d just witnessed. Graham had one of those knowing smirks on his face that Michael hated. Because Graham never divulged _what_ he knew.

“Nothing.”

“It doesn’t seem like nothing.”

Michael sipped his water, then tossed the rest away. “It’s nothing.”

Graham glanced into the living room, still smiling that bloody smile. “I’ve never seen him like that with anyone either,” he said, and Michael looked up at him sharply. “Apart from you, of course.”

Michael scoffed. “Don’t be stupid.” John wasn’t like that with him… Was he?

Apparently, his eyes asked that question, because Graham said, “He adores you,” drawing out that one unbelievable word: adores.

Michael pressed a hand over his eyes. He couldn’t bear Graham looking at him like he knew every thought that’d ever passed through his skull. The dark behind his eyelids was safe. There, he didn’t have to face examining why he felt tight-chested, desperate to dive out the back door and join the cricket that caused all this trouble in those overgrown bushes. It'd be better than going back into that room. He could become a hermit, live in a mossy cave and only converse with other hermits. Perhaps there was a sketch in that.

A crackle of pipe tobacco at the other end of the kitchen preceded, “Once Jonesy calms down, John’ll be all yours again. Don’t worry.”

“I’ve never seen him act like that with Terry.” The words were Michael’s autopilot speaking. He wiped his hand down his face as Graham peered into the living room again. He appeared to find the whole thing rather humorous.

“The soppy git.” He shook his head, smiling around his pipe. “Though Jonesy crying could befuddle any man. Come on.” He cocked his head and sauntered through the doorway before Michael could stop him again.

It took him a moment to gather his wits. They’d gotten together to write in their pairs, and things had actually gone pretty smoothly before this, even if they’d only managed one scene and two links so far. He had to get back in there, stop all this silly navel gazing.

In the living room, Graham was busy plucking papers from the floor and righting the displaced contents of the coffee table. Terry looked up as Michael entered, only gratitude in his big brown (wet) eyes.

“You all right, dear?” Michael asked, patting Terry’s shoulder. “Back with us are you?”

Chewing a fingertip, Terry nodded.

“And your head?” He looked at John as he sat again.

“Oh, fine, fine.” John waved the question away. “It’s no problem.”

Terry frowned and turned to John. “What’s wrong with your head?”

With a full-on chortle, Graham pointed his pipe between the two of them. “Don’t tell me you didn’t notice you almost gave John here a concussion? The poor bastard.”

“I’m so sorry,” Terry said, and Michael couldn’t recall the last time he’d looked so mortified.

“Let’s move on, shall we?” John reached for the pile of papers Graham had arranged on the table. They were mostly ruined, coffee glueing them together. “For Christ’s sake…” he hissed, shooting daggers at Terry. “Next time you have an episode, do it away from our work will you?”

“Oh, right. It’s that easy, is it!”

Another of Graham’s knowing looks came Michael’s way. Everything was back to normal, the reset button pushed: John and Terry were bickering, and not a lot of writing was getting done. Michael managed a weak smile. He didn’t quite feel normal again. For him, reality had shifted an inch to the left.

He met John’s eyes, and when he stopped mid-argument to ask if he was okay, a soft “Mikey?” making heat coil in his chest, everything slotted back into place.


End file.
